To Boldly Go
by imagia-quill
Summary: Neither of young Spock and young Kirk understood their Soulpoetries. Spock, always striving to embrace his Vulcan heritage, found his Soulpoetry, a cursive inscription of "to boldly go", nonsensical, while Kirk, a local rebellious prodigy, had always felt his Soulpoetry, an almost calligraphical writing of "where no one has gone before", was mocking him. Spirk, AOS, Soulmate AU.
1. Chapter 1

**To Boldly Go  
**by: imagia-quill

::

**Disclaimer: **Not Gene Roddenberry, J. J. Abrams, or Justin Lin.

::

_Chapter 1_

::

Spock had always been, and would always be, a child of two worlds.

His cognitive and physical abilities were that of a Vulcan, but with human blood coursing through his veins and his human emotional needs boiling like that of a child from his early life, it didn't take Spock long to realize he was not like any other Vulcan child. He blended well in his school, and on the surface, Spock was physically and academically no different than any other Vulcan students, but there was an aching emptiness that he couldn't resolve as he was restricted from physical contact with his mother, as he was strictly prohibited against any display of childish emotion at the tender age of four years old, and the ever-haunting confusion at the fact that he couldn't relate with any of his fellow Vulcan peers who seemed undisturbed with having to grow up without ever hugging their parents.

And his Soulpoetry; his Soulpoetry was human, Spock knew it.

Soulpoetries were a galactic-wide phenomenon and was a compulsory object in standard Vulcan education, so Spock knew how Vulcans usually received their Soulpoetries at six years old, usually a cursive handwriting in Vulcan across the length of their backs, and how humans usually received theirs at ten years old, usually written across the length of the inside of their arm.

Spock received his at age of eight.

::

Jim Kirk was truly an exceptional child, and Winona always made sure her son was aware of that fact.

Aside from the fact that it would always be the curse of mothers to think of their children as special, Jim Kirk was truly a child with remarkable display of intelligent, even from early age. Several things he liked to do include trying to beat his brother at chess, reading about extraterrestrial cultures, staring at her late husband's old PX70 that concerned Winona a lot, and _stargazing_.

Winona liked to accompany her son to gaze at the starlit Iowa sky after dinner; just her and Jim, since his brother Sam was more interested in living things rather than distant stars, sometimes even until hours late enough at nights for an eight years old boy. At first, Jim liked to point at a random direction and asked what star it was. _It's Antares_, Winona would say, _it's the red star in the middle of __Scorpio_. But as time rolled by, Winona realized how quickly Jim had committed all the details to memory.

"I wanna go there, Mom, I wanna go to the stars like Dad," Jim said one day as he pointed his finger at the edge of Milky Way, illuminating the sky with stardust and clouds of billion other suns. Winona turned her head to face her son, unaware of how her eyes had just caught the moist and began watering, at the sight of Jim, grinning as he imagined himself on a starship, exploring the skies.

He looked just like George.

::

Growing up as a social outcast, Spock didn't make meaningful relationships in school.

Vulcans didn't usually have the form of friendships that humans would have in their early years; bands, gangs, cliques. Instead, they would usually associate themselves around other Vulcans with compatible minds and common goals, associations that transcended the relationships that humans would usually have, one that relied more on emotional compatibility.

Not one of his peers was compatible with Spock.

At first it was due to the fact that Spock was… not quite Vulcan. Not yet a mature adult Vulcan, there were still a lot of traces of human emotions in his Vulcan katra, but then by the time Spock had learned to fully govern his thoughts and actions to honor the Vulcan way, the whole school had already known of his heritage. At the age of eight, not one of his peers felt like they would be compatible to form a friendship with Spock. More often than not, his human heritage was not something that got in the way of him connecting with his fellow Vulcan peers anymore, but something they found _curious_.

And so began the attempts to illicit an emotional response from him.

At first it was merely mild bullying, minor inconveniences that Spock could easily overcome. Getting called a half-breed as he walked through the corridors, having no partners in school projects, having to deal with rumors spread across the campus that he was not a Vulcan and would not even graduate primary school.

And then came the physical abuse. Harsh brush on the shoulder as other Vulcans walked past him, tripping him up just to see if he would cry when he hit the ground, accidental spill of hot dishes onto his robe. Small pushing and kicking, sharp pulling at his ears because they were curious to see if they were real Vulcan ears. One time one of them tried to punch him square in the face, but Spock incapacitated him first in one swift sweep on his footings.

But only when they dragged his parents into it that Spock truly lost control.

"He's traitor, you know? Your father, for marrying her. _That human whore_."

He snapped.

Vulcan combat involved the need to use their energy in a very directed way, choose their movements wisely, spend their energy efficiently, but Spock—the way he screamed and thrashed wildly like an animal, the way his breath came out short and ragged from his mouth, the way every single part of his body seemed to move uncoordinatedly on its own accord, seizing every chance to hurt his opponent without so much of a thought, the way his face crunched up in fury—when Spock finally snapped, he fought his opponent like a human, with anger blazing ugly, intense, and bright.

Because no more, _no more_– he had made it clear from their very first assault that they didn't have the right to insult his family, that it was unwise of them to belittle that which they did not understand, that he would not let them be satisfied, but they would not listen to him. He had advised them as a Vulcan, now he would make his point clear as a human.

Later that day, as he waited on the Headmaster's room for his father, he realized the inside of his right arm was burning not because of his fight, but because of an inscription, now inking his flesh underneath the green-hued bruises that were decorating his arms. His Soulpoetry, in a human language, in a human location, emerging on a human age. He rolled his right arm to see what it said and gasped.

_To Boldly Go._

::

Jim shook awake at the gentle caress of cool morning Iowan breeze against his cheeks. On the far side of the horizon, the sky had a slight pinkish tint against the deep dark blue sky, signaling the breaking of dawn. Yawning as he clumsily tumbled out of sleep, Jim put his arm and pushed his body against the sandy earth to a sitting position. He had fallen asleep on his backyard again.

Last night had been the longest Perseids shower that Jim had ever experienced, so long that he must've fallen asleep there and then against the gently sloping opening in his backyard; a perfect place to go back to stargazing after his mother had told him to go to sleep, safe from view.

The meteor shower was so beautiful that he found himself gazing upward towards the sky once more, imagining little stars falling through the sky even though it was nearing morning. There had been so many of them he lost count after 57th star, or he might have fallen asleep then. If he could make a wish for every single one of them...

_I want to get out of this city_. _I want a small motorbike_. _I want to have Mom's special chicken curry every day_._ I want Sam to stop dissecting frogs on the dining table_.

_I want to go to the stars_.

Something burned on the inside of Jim's forearm, prompting him to wince. Pulling his arms to his stomach, he turned the side upward to see if he had accidentally slept with his arm catching a thorn by his side but found something more magnificent engraved on his flesh.

An inscription, in an almost otherworldly penmanship.

_Where No One Has Gone Before_.

::

"They called you a traitor," Spock mumbled in a low voice, his lips swelling from where he received the punch. He avoided Sarek's eyes, knowing his father was scrutinizing him, but unbeknownst to the Vulcan child, Sarek was not judging him.

Sarek was looking down from above his right shoulder, where he ripped the sleeve of his right arm. He knew Spock was trying to hide it from the way he kept angling it at an uncomfortable position to hide the inside of his forearm from Sarek, but the older Vulcan could see it. He couldn't read it properly, but he knew it was in human Latin letters, located in the most mundane location for human Soulpoetry, and emerged when Spock was eight years old.

Sarek sighed, and dared he say it if he wasn't a faithful subscriber of Surak's teachings, _in fondness_.

::

**A/N: **Okay, so that's the first chapter of _To Boldly Go_, covering up Spock and Kirk's childhood prior to their meetings in Starfleet! Also, as much as I'd like to write TOS! Spirk, I'd like to clarify that this one is AOS, so (sadly *_sighing heavily_*) we don't have Michael Burnham, Spock suffering from L'tak Terai, Tarsus IV, Spock's conflict with Sarek about going to Starfleet, or even I-chaya. I haven't watched a lot of TOS so I'm afraid I won't do the characters justice if I try to write it in TOS. I'm treating Sam Kirk and Uncle Frank (as Winona's brother) as AOS canon because they are originally in Star Trek 2009 before J. J. Abrams cut them from the final director cut. (Also, we all know how AOS!Kirk is mostly depicted as a bad boy extraordinaire, but argh, forgive me but rewatching The Search for Spock and the Voyage Home for numerous times may or may not have instilled a permanent image of Jim Kirk as a space golden retriever in my head). But enough of me blabbering, what do you guys think? :D

Coming up next is Jim and Spock on their years as young adolescents, including the famous "Long Live and Prosper (heavily implied _bitch_.)"


	2. Chapter 2

**To Boldly Go  
**by: imagia-quill

::

**Disclaimer: **Not Gene Roddenberry, J. J. Abrams, or Justin Lin.

::

_Chapter 2_

::

Jim's life first tumbled downwards when Sam left home.

They were never a rich family, occasionally having to turn to his mother's brother for help and shelter, but they had always been _happy_. He had his brother and his mother, and it had always been enough, but it all changed when George left home.

It was a hot Iowan summer and they were currently staying at their Uncle Frank's for a few weeks as his mother was trying to do something with their old house, and Jim woke up to the sound of fighting.

"_I_ _told you to take care of them_." It was his mother. He had never heard his mother's voice so shrill like that before, so scared and helpless, laced with thick and intense despair and fear. His heart stopped on its track, realizing something was terribly wrong.

"Your son is one ungrateful little brat who has no decency of—"

"Frank, he's your nephew!"

"Look Winona, I took good care of them but Sam is an adult and I told him not to—"

"He's sixteen, Frank! You're supposed to take care of him—"

Later that day, he learned that Sam had run away to who knows where, having done with his uncle's neglect and abuse. He brought very little things with him—Jim only noticed a few pairs of clothes and several notebooks were missing—but apart from that, Sam didn't seem to have brought anything and just ran away.

Jim cried himself to sleep that night, his dreams filled with fear and the echo of his own voice calling for his brother in the dark.

The following days were where it really went downhill. His mother started to come home less and less often, claiming that she was renovating their old house to make a saloon and were trying so hard, jumping from job to job, to make ends meet. Rumors began to spread through his friends, and soon the whole school knew how Jim had been staying with his uncle for two years and began calling his mother a whore.

Even though it felt like he might have broken his knuckles, nothing felt as satisfying as the first punch that thirteen-years-old James T. Kirk landed on the face of his bully.

Jim was involved in a lot of fight after that.

His uncle became more rude and harsh. One time he caught a sight of a nearly-empty bottle of vodka in the kitchen and it didn't take Jim long to accept the fact that his uncle had finally turned to alcohol.

One morning, Jim was nibbling on his cereal as he blankly stared at the back door on the other side of the kitchen, contemplating of running away himself. But of course he couldn't do that. He wouldn't leave his mother with this pathetic alcoholic excuse of a man to shelter her, would he? His mother was the only good thing he had left in this world; his hard-working, all-loving mother. Winona Kirk, who already had too much grey hair on her hair despite her young age, who would always kiss his forehead good night on every rare occasion that she came home after Jim had fallen asleep (she didn't want to kiss him while he was still awake, afraid of wounding his adolescent pride, although unbeknownst to her, Jim had always been awake the whole time, and he treasured those gestures with all his heart), who would always flash her bright smile at him as she pointed to the sky and ask him what constellation it was.

He accidentally caught the sight of his Soulpoetry and the next thing he was aware of was the loud clang of his cereal bowl against the wall. He had subconsciously thrown it across the room.

A low thump came from his uncle's room, followed the sound of his door opening. Jim turned to face his uncle's nearing figure, his breathing erratic and his eyes watering in frustration. Frank approached him slowly, his eyes bloodshot and his loud breath reeked of alcohol.

Jim welcomed the smack that was sent his way.

::

Vulcan further education, an equivalent of human high school, was a physically, mentally, and intellectually exhausting education but Spock loved it more than his times in his primary school. At least here, all of his peers were already too exhausted to bully him and he was treated almost with no difference to any other Vulcan students.

No one called him half-breed, trip him on the hallways, or push him on the shoulders just to see if he was truly part human to display an emotional response, and Spock carried on his life almost like a normal Vulcan child.

He excelled in science and philosophy, and one of his teachers even endorsed him to apply for the Vulcan Science Academy, the most prestigious institutions in the whole Vulcan.

That night, Spock retired to his room and reviewed his notes in his PADD. In his meticulously arranged spreadsheet was one reminder to go to his Headmaster to ask for his signature in his letter of recommendation. Although educational institutions in Vulcan were all based on merits, Spock went to one of the top schools in Vulcan, and a letter of recommendation from one of its teachers validated by its Headmaster would get him to a prioritized position for admissions to the Vulcan Science Academy.

A slight frown slowly crept up his eyebrows in deep thinking as he realized something. Going to Vulcan Science Academy would also mean he would have to complete the kolinahr, a ritual for Vulcans to purge all of their vestigial emotions.

Spock unconsciously angled his right forearm before he stopped his motion midway. He didn't need to see his Soulpoetry. He was well acquainted with it—knew every single brush of the human letters, every single stroke of the boyish penmanship. He knew what it said.

But he paid very little mind to it.

Soulpoetries were not something that happened similarly on everyone. As an essence of one's soul and a phenomenon that occurred on all sentient beings across the universe, it was an undisputable display of how inexplicable and intricate and elegant nature could work, so much so that even philosophers and scientists couldn't decode it up to this day. Every detail on Soulpoetries was a revelation of one's soul—the words, usually coming in several words of poetic passage, were the primary element that would represent a person, the location of the Soulpoetry could signify the closest thing to one's heart, the penmanship and the color of the writings might indicate an important detail to one's personality, the language of the writings might speak volumes. Some species were even reported to possess Soulpoetries in forms other than poetic passages.

Several beliefs and philosophies were attached to this phenomenon. Monogamist individuals were usually of the opinion that upon finding one's lifemate, their Soulpoetries, each an essence of their souls, would make _perfect _sense as their souls hinged perfectly into each other. Other, more polygamist-leaning, communities usually treated their Soulpoetries as something more flexible—Soulpoetries were only a passage of several words, therefore it was only natural that they would fit with multiple other Soulpoetries, each match making sense in their respective ways. Naturalists would strive to focus all their power to lead lives according to their Soulpoetries, believing that nature knew best, while on the other side of the scale, nurturists were usually rather disconnected to their Soulpoetries as they treated them as something that should not influence their lives.

And so, in the fifteenth year of his life—fifteen years of growing up as a social outcast, being regularly bullied, meditation, and finding how the Vulcan way had worked best for him—young Spock finally arrived to the logical conclusion that his Soulpoetry could not be something more than a reminder of his human heritage.

He turned his PADD's screen off, preparing himself to meditate, but not before he put the reminder to ask for the recommendation letter tomorrow.

::

Jim woke up from his sleep to a tangled mess of bed sheet, a distant mumbling, seemingly between two irritated individuals through the phone, and a ray of morning sunlight peeking from closed curtain, illuminating specks of dust floating in the dry Iowan air.

He stretched his body, groaning as he buried his face on the pillow. It smelled of cheap perfume, and he couldn't make out a face from the scent. It wasn't unusual—he probably got drunk yesterday and went to sleep with one of the girls from the party. He let out a relaxed breath as he slowly drifted back to sleep before a feminine voice shook him awake.

"You need to go, my Dad's gonna be home any minute now."

Jim groaned. He didn't quite catch what she said, but he knew that voice. His mind was still a bit dull and slow from his drinking, but he… he knew that voice. Was she one of his classmates? He should hope not, it would be a bit awkward–

A playful smack on his upturned back shook him awake. "Jim, I'm serious!"

Jim shot awake, half-laughing. What a very mundanely hilarious scenario. Getting drunk, sleeping with a girl he couldn't possible remember, putting his clothes on in a rush because said girl's parents were coming home. "Okay, okay! Wait, what's your name again?"

His question was greeted by his underwear landing square on his face.

Jim quickly gathered his clothes from the floor and head for the bathroom, the unanswered question of the girl's name still gnawing at the back of his mind.

He put on his underwear and his trousers before he went to the sink to splash some fresh water on his face. Putting both his hands on both sides of the sink, he leaned forward and exhaled, feeling the water droplets flowing down his cheeks before accidentally catching the sight of his Soulpoetry.

_Where No One Has_—no.

He winced inaudibly at the painful reminder, batting the thought away before it took form. He had never looked at Soulpoetry since he was so young and was he not currently strapped for cash, he really would get through all the trouble to get one of those small surgeries to hide his Soulpoetry, because, honestly—_what's the point_?

Where no one had gone before? Jim tore his eyes from his forearm to look into the mirror, at the person staring back at him, his bright blue eyes sitting above a pair of hanging dark eye bags that once belonged to a boy who dreamed and longed to go to the stars. And what did he have left now? His mother, off on dates with strange men, obviously still hadn't recovered from where she emerged a broken woman after his father's death. His own brother, nowhere to be found ever since he ran away when Jim was thirteen, leaving him to live with his abusive alcoholic uncle. And himself, a local genius rebel with little to no sense of purpose and whose dreams were reduced to mindless drinking at local bars and sleeping with cute girls that he couldn't even remember the name of.

Surely stuffs from tales where no one had gone before.

::

Upon being called, Spock entered the main hall, his posture poised and calm. He stood at the center of the room as instructed, awaiting the verdict of the council. One of them was his father, and he didn't miss the way Sarek's eyes lingered on the large, wall-high double doors that was now being slowly closed, the other side of which he knew his mother was still standing at.

Spock directed his sight to the Minister, an old Vulcan of short posture.

"S'chn T'gai Spock. You have surpassed the expectations of your instructors," he began. "Your final record is flawless, with one exception."

Spock restrained an urge to raise his eyebrows. He had performed his examinations perfectly, with no flaw that he was aware of.

"I see that you have applied to Starfleet as well."

"It was logical to cultivate multiple options," Spock reasoned, defending his action.

"Logical," the Minister agreed. "But unnecessary. You are hereby accepted to the Vulcan Science Academy."

Spock gave a little nod to the verdict in gratitude. His head was already swimming with possibilities and time tables and future plans. He had researched on a lot of research topics for the department of his choosing, and he reminded himself to discuss this immediately with the council.

But then something that he had never experienced for a long time happened.

"It is truly remarkable, Spock, that you have achieved so much, despite your disadvantage. All rise!"

_Despite your disadvantage_.

He was an adult Vulcan now, far more in control of his thoughts and actions and emotions, but the last time his heart rate had elevated this quickly and uncontrollably was when he was still a child, the day he received his Soulpoetry. The members of the admission council of the Vulcan Science Academy were all rising from their seats, welcoming him from where they were sitting on their high podiums, but Spock couldn't help but look down at them. Vulcan high ministers, who had prided themselves for their unbiased judgments but were still subject to childish and backward specist views. Even at the heart of Vulcan philosophy, the teachings of Surak that founded the new and enlightened Vulcan culture and made way to one of Vulcan's best academies, even there their society still permitted supremacist views to thrive and even there Spock still couldn't find his place in the world.

"If you would clarify, Minister, to what disadvantage are you referring?" he asked, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly in disgust and disappointment.

"Your human mother," the Minister calmly said, as though the fact that he had stated was not an example of shameful, obsolete, and unethical supremacist view that belonged to the dark ages. The council was silent for a moment—his own father even made no comment against it, for Surak's sake—waiting for Spock to pledge his allegiance to Vulcan as instructed, but Spock remained silent.

He was silent for a moment but deep down, something fell into place. For the first time in so long, his human anger, an ember that Spock had tried to put out for years that suddenly caught fire, and his Vulcan cold, logical mind aligned together, agreeing to come to a decision together. His human side, an otherworldly beast chained deep within his chest, untouched and silenced for so many years, was peeking from the way his gaze fell on the Minister and turned slightly malignant despite his stoic and unmoving figure.

"Council, ministers I must decline."

"No Vulcan has ever declined admission to this Academy," the Minister quickly warned, his tone lowering in threat.

"Then as I am half-human, your record remains untarnished," Spock quickly replied, backfiring them with the same logic they had always prided themselves on.

"Spock, you have made a commitment to honor the Vulcan way," Sarek warned, but Spock only returned his gaze with the same determination.

"Why did you come before this council today?" the Minister inquired. "Was it to satisfy your emotional need to rebel?"

"The only emotion I wish to convey is gratitude. Thank you, Ministers, for your consideration."

He then met every single one of the council members' eyes before bidding goodbye, unbeknownst to him, to the planet for the rest of his career.

"_Live long and prosper_."

::

Jim Kirk shifted in his lying position, allowing blood to pump back to his numb legs. He hadn't noticed how he had lied on the sandy ground unmoving all night, watching Scorpio moved slowly across the sky before setting on the far west end of the horizon, his mind a whirlwind of questions.

He was lying on the sloping opening on the back of his old house, the same exact spot where he would spent the night stargazing with his mother when he was young. They had rented the old house to an old man now, who was now managing it as a local saloon. He was a bit nasty, and he couldn't seem to ever manage to commit Jim's face to memory because he had always thought he was a thief every time he caught Jim falling asleep on that particular spot after a long stargazing session.

But this time, Jim didn't sleep.

Because for the first time since he was thirteen, Jim allowed himself. He allowed himself to look.

He slowly angled his right shoulder, allowing the right sleeve of his jacket to come loose, before he snaked his arm off, revealing, underneath his ugly bruises, his Soulpoetry, written in an almost calligraphic and almost otherworldly penmanship.

_Where No One Has Gone Before. _

He narrowed his eyes subconsciously as he felt them catching moist, blinking the tears away quickly.

And then, it was all that it took, his long-neglected Soulpoetry, emerging for the first time under the same sky and above the same spot on this gently sloping ground, for him to dig into his pockets and took out the keys to his motorbike, igniting the engine to life, bound for Riverside Shipyard.

He'd go to where no one had gone before; he'd get that ship in only three years.

::

**A/N: **For your information, it took all of my will power not to write in the b-word in Spock's final farewell to the admission council of Vulcan Science Academy because god, Spock was so savage there. He practically flipped the middle finger at the council and don't we all love him for that. Anyways, that's the second chapter! What do you guys think? I'm sorry I have to write off Jim like that! He's still a sweet boy even though he had a bad boy phase like that. Also, I'm sorry if Jim's early life (he won't always be like this, I promise!) doesn't agree with the fact that money is no longer a problem in 23rd century! Honestly I still have a lot of problem wrapping my mind around that fact and grasping that concept, but this is the only thing I can come up with :( but if any of you have suggestions, I'm always open for it! Constructive reviews are always welcomed!


End file.
